


In A Loose Sense Of The Word

by ScoobyDoobyDrew



Category: Paranatural (Webcomic)
Genre: Gen, imax, maxaac
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-14
Updated: 2014-05-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 15:57:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1310644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScoobyDoobyDrew/pseuds/ScoobyDoobyDrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Max/Isaac. 12 year olds struggling with sexuality.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I am desperately ashamed of myself. Mostly because this is very poorly written.

Max had gotten a lot better at getting out of bed on time. After the fiasco he suffered on his first day due to oversleeping (and the ultimate lack of necessity of any hurry in the first place), he had decided that he was not going to go through that B.S. again. And so, he now awoke and rose out of bed at precisely 7:15 each morning, leaving more than enough time to walk to school and still arrive there early. The punctuality of his rising was ensured faithfully by the efforts of his many squatters; every morning the moment his clock’s alarm began it’s lurid wail, Hissin’ Pete would join in to create a chorus the likes of which are rivaled only in the deepest pits of aural hell. This cacophony would always upset PJ, who would in turn shake Max’s shoulder vigorously until the boy finally consented to break free of his slumber to put a stop to it (PJ didn’t actually care so much about the noise, but he relished the opportunity to actually  _touch_ a physical being!). 

So went Max’s new morning routine. He’d get up, end the strident duet, take a shower in the dark to simulate five extra minutes of sleep, and manage to walk downstairs precisely at 7:30 every morning. And inevitably, waiting for him in his father’s corner store, just checking out his daily purchase of his disgusting vegan power bar, was Isaac.

It wasn't intentional, Max knew. At least, the coincidence of their respective departures from the corner store wasn't. Isaac’s coming to that particular convenience store, when there were several other available ones in town, certainly was. But the fact that the two always seemed to end up walking out the automatic door together seemed to be. 

It wasn't that Max minded or anything. The redheaded spectral was a dork, true, but Max was a cynic and all pubescent cynics secretly delight in spending their time with dorks and nerds and any manner of peers who are totally upfront and sincere with their emotions so that they can mock and snark at them. It forms sort of symbiotic relationship that is simply invaluable in a preteen’s budding social life. No, Max didn't really mind walking to school with Isaac everyday, it was just baffling to the boy how their schedules always managed to coincide.

If Max decided to get an early start one day, then he’d find that Isaac has as well. If hopped down the stairs in a full-out sprint because he was massively late and silently praying internally that Mr. Garcia forgot to come to school again, lo and behold, Isaac would be stuffing his change into his pocket and scarfing down his barf-inducing breakfast because he slept through his alarm that morning. 

So, on this particular morning, Max wasn't the least bit surprised to find Isaac rummaging through the refrigerator, veganbar in hand. As Max hopped the last stair, Isaac let the door slam shut (the glass pane on it was brand-new, the shattered and bloodied one having been replaced just days past), holding a bottle of orange juice. With pulp. There was something wrong with that boy.

“Morning kiddo!” Max’s dad belted, chipper as if it were any time other than 7:30 in the G.D. morning. 

“Morning,” Max replied, hoping he sounded indifferent rather than tired. He nodded at Isaac coolly, “‘Sup.” 

Isaac rolled his eyes as he set his few purchases on the counter and Mr. Puckett began to ring them up, “Morning to you too, sunshine.”

Max didn't deign to respond, and instead simply leaned against the counter, pulling his old DumbPhone **™**  and playing idly with it. He had no particular messages he wished to send, but he wasn't about to let the smarmy ginger think that he was waiting for him. A week or so ago, he probably wouldn't have, but it’s easy to fall into habits. And right now, Max was in the habit of walking to school with Isaac.

Isaac paid and grabbed his items in one hand, and accepted his change from Max’s dad with the other, and then fumbled awkwardly to put it away in his wallet, first tucking his breakfast under his arm and then attempting to shove the bills and coins into it.

“Holy cow, you’re a colossal dork,” Max intoned as the redhead continued struggling with his change. 

“Shut up!” Isaac snapped, blushing and finally simply shoving the money into his Fullmetal  Alchemist-themed wallet, and shoving it into his pocket. “Let’s just get going, okay?”

“You boys have a nice day!” Max’s day called in a sing-song as the pair walked through the sliding automatic doors of the convenience store.

“Yeah, see ya, Dad.”

“Thank you, Mr. Puckett, sir!”

The glass door slid shut behind them, and as they walked across the crosswalk Max gave Isaac an exaggeratedly incredulous look, “‘Mr. Puckett, sir’? Dude, do you need a wet wipe? ‘Cause there’s brown all over your nose.”

“Oh, shut up,” Isaac retorted haughtily, ripping the packaging open on his breakfast bar, releasing the stench of semi-vegan foodstuffs, “I don’t need your scorn just because I know how to show respect to my authority figures.”

Max grinned evilly, “Soooooo…. does that mean I’m going to be hearing ‘Thank you, Mr. Spender, sir!’ a lot more now?”

Isaac bristled, his hair almost visibly standing on end even more so than normal, and he blushed furiously, “I meant authority figures whom I respect!” He ripped a piece of his food off with his teeth, and chewed and swallowed angrily. “Plus, I show Mr. Spender plenty of respect; I just don’t like being kept constantly in the dark about EVERYTHING!”

Max pondered briefly on whether it was more appropriate to comment that on whatever planet his father could be considered a respectable figure of authority, it was not this one, or upon the curious poetic irony of a man with light-based powers keeping someone in the dark, but decided that the moment had passed before he could come to a decision, and instead asked, “How are we going to school today? Walking, or the shortcut?”

Isaac took another bite and chewed slowly, looking out over the hill and down the slope. He swallowed, “I’m up for walking today. It’s nice out, plus…” He paused, “Well, nevermind. Let’s go.”

Max gave him a look, but Isaac had already begun to walk up the slope towards school. Max shrugged and followed,

“So what’s up with your scooter situation?”

“Ugh, the thing’s busted. My dad says he’ll get me a new one as soon as we save up the money, and seeing as his method of ‘saving up money’ is to put a nickle in a jar labeled ‘Scooter Funds’ every day, it may take awhile. Or maybe the rest of eternity.” Max put his hands in the pockets of his jacket and kicked a pebble, “And… I've had that scooter for a long time; I’m gonna miss it.”

Isaac looked down. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of their shoes scuffing on the pavement. Then Isaac spoke up, voice hopeful, “Well, if you’d like you could borrow some of my wheels for awhile.”

Max glanced sideways, “You’ll let me borrow your scooter?”

Isaac chuckled nervously, “Well, I don’t have a scooter, per se, but I do have an extra pair of roller blades, if…” He trailed off, gauging Max’s reaction. The other boy’s face was totally inscrutable for a moment, and then…

“Pfffffffffffffffff-! Hahahahahaha!” Max bent over, clutching his stomach in a hyperbole of unbridled hilarity. His fit brought the two to a complete halt.

Isaac’s face contorted itself into a shape of embarrassed rage, “What in the H-E-Double hockey sticks is so funny!?”

Max wiped a single tear of pure mirth from the corner of his eye as he stood back up. “Nuttin’, nuttin’, s’just that I think roller blades - heehee - sound totALLY RADICAL! Hahahaha!”

Electricity crackled over Isaac’s clenched fists, and his indignant blush deepened to a shade brighter than that of his hair, “Roller blading is a totally legitimate means of travel! And this, coming from someone who uses a Razor scooter to get around! What are we!? 8?”

Max was still giggling uncontrollably, “Maybe I am 8, but if you’re still ‘blading like it’s 1993, what does that make you? Negative 8?”

Metaphorical steam burst from Isaac’s ears, and less-than-metaphorical lightning crackled in his eyes. He fumbled for words, “I-! You-! UGh!”

There was a sudden _crack!_  and the smell of burnt ozone filled the air.

Max was thrown violently backwards as a lightning bolt discharged from Isaac’s hair spikes and struck the other boy smack-dab in his chest. He landed heavily on his butt three feet back on the pavement with a _whumph!_

Isaac’s fists instantly unclenched and he ran towards where Max lay dazed on his rear end.

“Ohmygoshareyouokay?”

A small wisp of smoke trailed up from the front of Max’s insolent children jacket. He looked up at Isaac uncomprehendingly for a moment before blinking twice slowly and shaking his head.

“I’m just…” he started, attempting to bring himself to his feet before losing his balance quite suddenly and landing back on his backside. “Peachy,” he finished, accepting Isaac’s hand as he stretched it out to help Max back to his feet. 

“I’m so sorry,” Isaac began gushing, “I didn't mean to it was an accident my powers sometimes they get away from me when I’m upset and I was just so annoyed but that’s not a good reason I know and I’m sorry and just…” he sighed, “...Are you alright?”

Max looked down at himself. His jacket had a large charred circle right in the center of his chest, rendering the last half of “insolent” and the first half of “children” totally illegible (which made it appear as if he was wearing “insoldren” brand, which sounded more like cold medicine than a clothing brand), and inundating the air with the fragrant scent of immolated polyester

Max quickly unzipped the jacket, sending small flakes of burnt fabric fluttering to the ground, and revealing a near-identical insolent children t-shirt beneath it. This one was in considerably better shape; the scorch mark in the center of it looked less like someone set fire to it and more like someone had simply extinguished their cigarette on it… their cigarette the size of a person’s forearm, but hey.

“Well, my coat and shirt are toast,” quipped Max, “literally.” He lifted up his shirt, “But I seem to have escaped being torched.”

Isaac blushed at the sudden reveal of Max’s torso.The other boy was surprisingly well-developed for a twelve year old; each of his abs was clearly defined and even his chest showed signs of future development (which made sense; a talent parkour artist can’t exactly be out of shape, can he?). Isaac immediately felt stupid and immature for blushing at simply the sight of another boy’s chest. Either way, Max was right; his hairless chest was totally devoid of blemish, burn-marks or otherwise.

Max dropped his shirt and rezipped his coat, sending another flurry of soot particles flying. “Oh gosh,” Isaac said, looking down, “I’m sorry, I'll buy you a new shirt and stuff.”

Max shrugged, “You don’t need to.” He stopped, thinking, “In fact, I almost kind of like it.”

The redhead raised an eyebrow.

“See,” Max explained, “insolent children is a brand all about irreverence and disrespect. It’s about ignoring the expectations for what clothes should look like, eschewing ‘aesthetics’ and ‘attractiveness’ in favor of an esoteric motif. Plain black shirts with minimalist designs or nothing but their logo, t-shirts labeled ‘pants’, all manner of articles simply labeled ‘clothing’; it’s all about appealing to the disenfranchised youth.

“But lately, they've been getting more and more popular. What’s the point of a company satirizing the corporate machine if that company itself is becoming part of the corporate machine? The scorches are perfect, blotting out the company logo, the very symbol of consumerism, in favor of a defect. The defect being the scorch. It’s actually a very potent message when you think about it; it gets the shirt back to the counterculture roots that the company was born from.”

Max, at the conclusion of his spiel, was beaming widely. Isaac just stared at his friend, slightly open-mouthed. It wasn't so much that the content of the other boy’s rant surprised him (he, personally, just liked insolent children because it was in style and considerably cheaper than other big-name brands that all his classmates suddenly started wearing and caring deeply about sometime between sixth and seventh grade). It was just seeing Max, who was normally so indifferent and irreverent towards everything, so excited and unironically impassioned was a bit jarring.

“You've sure thought a lot about this, haven’t you?” asked Isaac as the pair began walking up the slope of the hill once more.

“Well, not really,” replied Max, shrugging, “It’s just that insolent children’s rise in popularity has been bugging me for awhile. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with them having more business, but when I see a bunch of people buying clothes to look stylish from a company whose goal was originally to make fun of people who buys clothes to look stylish, I can’t help but think they must be really stupid. Don’t they get that everyone who’s in on the joke is laughing at them?”

Isaac looked down at his own shirt. It was mustard yellow with a frocket with the word “socks” emblazoned on it in comic sans. “Yeah, haha, they should feel pretty dumb.”

The pair continued walking, and a brief, but comfortable, silence fell over them, until Max asked, “‘So… does that sort of thing happen often with you?”

Isaac gave him a look, “What sort of thing?”

“Oh, y’know, the _kzzrt! blammo!_ thing.” Max punctuated his words with what he must have thought were adequate gesticulations to convey the idea of lightning.

“Oh.” Isaac looked at his feet, “Not really - well - more often than I’d like. Just when I get mad, it’s like this voltage builds up, without me even really realizing it, and then suddenly it just all goes…”

A moment of silence.

“... _Kzzrt!? Blammo!?_ ” Max inquired, repeating the same movements.

Isaac looked at the boy, whose hands were still frozen in air at the end of his ridiculous gestures. He chuckled, “Yeah, basically.”

Then he started laughing. Isaac himself wasn't really sure why, but suddenly there was just something hilarious about Max’s pose, something about the whole situation. Max lowered his arms and started to chuckle too. Isaac stopped walking, doubled over, now on the border of having an out-and-out fit. Max leaned against the metal railing overlooking the slopes, laughing heartily as well.

“What - haha - what even is so funny!?” Max asked, nearly fighting off tears.

“I don’t know. Hahaha - It’s just - just you looked so dumb standing there with your arms waving around!” Isaac fell into another fit.

“ _I_ looked so stupid!? Have you ever looked at your hair in a mirror - hahaha! - I have trouble not - ha! - not falling into hysterics every time I look at you!”

“Pffft! That insult was almost as lame as the whole ‘ _kzzrt! blammo!_ ’ thing!”

The two continued hurling increasingly-uncreative insults at one another, intermittent with uncontrollable bouts of giggles. Eventually they were rendered completely unable to talk, just gasping for breath and giggling with occasional exclamations of “carrot top” and “baldy” and “bishie freak.”

Isaac ended up sitting on his butt, struggling for air on the sidewalk. He checked his watch, his chortles finally dying down. “Crud,” he said, the corners of his mouth relaxing for the first time in minutes, “we should get going.”

Max was still leaning against the barrier, but now he stood, rubbing away some hilarity-induced tears. “Yeah, let’s go.”

Isaac hopped back to his feet, and the two began walking again, now chapping casually and amiably as they made their way to school.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Math class.

Isaac sat in his math class, the teacher’s lilting voice drifting over him, discussing excitedly Pythagoras and his theorem and how he apparently really hated beans (which, upon reflection, didn’t have much to do with math but it all made sense when Ms. Hart explained it) as Isaac stared out the window and allowed his mind to wander.

He thought about Max. He thought about his tendency to mock and snark. He thought about his almost-paradoxical like of making horrible puns too and the shit-eating grin that would blossom across his face when he did so. He thought about the first time he had seen his stupid, buzz-cut head.

When Isaac first overheard the boy in the hallway talking about seeing purple apparitions, he didn’t quite believe what he had heard, but just a couple of minutes of dedicated stalking of the new kid confirmed his suspicious. There was a new spectral in town.

Immediately, subconsciously, and inadvertently he began to plan and daydream. He’d be the one to greet the new kid first. He’d be the one to explain the world of spirits and spectrals. He’d be the one who would mentor him, take him under his wing. This new spectral would be his partner: the Ed to his Isabel. He wouldn’t be the odd one out anymore. Isabel and Ed could be as insular as they wanted; Mr. Spender could be as aloof and unforthcoming as he pleased. It wouldn’t matter, cause Isaac had his own comrade, his own friend.

Without realizing it, Isaac began believing, in the most dangerous and insidious way (dangerous and insidious in that he was not even aware that he had begun to believe it), that he and the new kid would be fast friends. They’d be instant partners. 

They’d need a team name. Something based off their respective powers, whenever the new kid got a Tool. Maybe even a motto. Or they could just recite the Team Rocket motto together, and fall into a heap laughing midway through, unable to hold back the hilarity. They could explore together, walk through the woods, talking about nothing in particular, but enjoying themselves in the cool air of the forest anyways. They could sit together at lunch, with or without Isabel or Ed, could spend every moment they managed together because Isaac was the best and first friend this kid had made and because the kid was the only friend Isaac really had.

Truth be told, Isaac didn’t really take into account the fact that the new spectral had, y’know, a personality and mind of his own. In Isaac’s mind, the kid was no more than a cardboard cutout: an idealized concept of what Isaac perceived as the perfect friend. So he found the way things actually unfolded a bit disappointing.

First, Mr. Spender told him not to talk to Max, yet. Then the kid fought and beat a grudge all by himself. Then, when in the club room, when he finally had the chance to talk to Max and explain things to him, Isabel and Ed and Mr. Spender were all there too (which, really, Isaac should have anticipated), mocking him. Max even had insulted his drawing. That had hurt, insanely. 

It had been naïve and immature to assume that a kid he had never met would instantly be his best friend, but that was how it was supposed to work, wasn’t it? The lonely, angry, ostracized kid has no one until the new kids shows up, and they form a bond and become inseparable, happier and more content than any of the kids who had been cruel to him before. Crazily, and unfairly he felt cheated, like the story hadn’t been told quite right.

Isaac had hoped so intensely for a change, however briefly, that somehow he convinced himself that it was going to happen. But it didn’t. Max wasn’t any different than the others.

Their meeting the next day had been entirely coincidental; how was he to know Max lived in a convenience store? Isaac knew it was stupid, but he was… still hopeful. He had overvalued an imagined relationship with someone he barely knew, and now, desperately, he was trying to fight to win over Max. So he tried to show off, because true friendship can be forged through forcing them through a die shaped like the unreasonable hopes of a twelve year old boy, obviously.

This plan, of course, blew up in his face. Max wasn’t impressed with his shortcut, or his (objectively cool) status as a medium. He wasn’t curious or awed at all, just his same, snarky self. More insults and mockery of the things Isaac was proud of. But that was the things. Isaac wasn’t insulted. He groaned sure; he moaned and gave shows of exaggerated exasperation, but, really, it didn’t hurt. There wasn’t that sudden drop in his belly as all the butterflies of irrational hopes suddenly turned into leaden weights of unmet expectations, dragging him down into a sea of embarrassment and mixed metaphors. Maybe it was just because he had already suffered the initial shock of having his dream of a friend that was his already crushed and now any mockery or cruelty Max could offer was just another drop of water in the sea of buttmonkeyness that was Isaac’s life. Maybe it was that Max said his jokes more out of cynical habit than any actual malice. Maybe, just maybe, it was because Isaac and Max were friends, had already reached that level of easy camaraderie where insults and idle jokes are tossed back and forth for the purpose of strengthening bonds rather than breaking them. Maybe Max’s words didn’t bother Isaac because he was really destined to be Isaac’s friend, albeit not the one he had expected.

Or maybe he was just fooling himself, trying to find friendship where it wasn’t.

It had happened before. When Isaac first joined the Activity Club, he had been so excited. He had always wanted to be cool, to be special. He had always believed, secretly, that there was something different about himself, that he had magic powers that hadn’t manifested yet, that he was truly an alien sent to be fostered on Earth from a dying planet, that he was a changeling child, some kind of elf or wood spirit switched at birth with a human boy, and that somewhere in the forest there was the boy he had replaced, raised amongst the elves and fairies of the woods. Isaac wanted to be like the heroes of his favorite books, the ones who were always 2-3 years older than the target audience and were always just like him -- ignored, different, prone to daydreaming -- and inevitably discovered that they were special somehow, that they were The One (deep down, maybe, Isaac was aware of how ubiquitous these feelings and wishes were, or why else would such books and narratives be as popular as they were, but Isaac continued believing nevertheless because he knew that he wanted it more than anyone else and so his hopes just had to come true).

The discovery of the Activity Club and ghosts and spectrals was everything Isaac could have ever wanted. He had been right all along; there was something special about him, he was important. He would have friends who understood him and with whom he shared something: a deep connection he had never been able to form with others before. He would have _nakama_.

But the Straw Hat crew the Activity Club was not. There wasn’t the camaraderie , the friendship he had expected. Mr. Spender refused to tell him anything but the basic details -- he was nice enough, sure; he made an attempt at being almost fatherly, in his own awkward way, but it was hard to feel any sort of trust for a man who answered his every question with stuttered “uh”s and “well, y’see, um..”s. Ed and Isabel were even worse. They weren’t mean, really. There was teasing, sure, but Isaac knew that it wasn’t malicious, just the vaguely offensive ribbing he suffered daily. They never told Isaac to go away, but they never tried to include him either; every time the three were together, Isaac got the sense they would rather he wasn’t there.

But still Isaac dogged them, suffering their insults and jokes, their tendency to fall into private conversation or laugh openly at inside jokes, convincing himself that he wasn’t bothered by it, that his position as resident buttmonkey of the Activity Club was just a sign of how tight-knit and close the gang was already.

It was almost impressive, really, how long Isaac continued fooling himself. It was astounding how slowly the realization that Isabel and Ed generally didn’t want him there came. It was embarrassing and pitiable how blindly Isaac kept trying to make friends with two kids who didn’t give two Starchman Stars about him and a teacher who was torn between wanting to help this poor kid who reminded him so much of himself and wanting to do the thing that was wise and keep him in the dark.

Almost everyday he'd end up with this queasy feeling, an oily sensation right in his gut, the feeling of being unwanted. The feeling of knowing quite suddenly that if he were to just stand up and leave the room no one would care. Worse— they might be glad.

But he refused to give up. Stupidly, he kept dogging after Ed and Isabel, convincing himself desperately that he was getting what he wanted, that he should feel happier, that maybe if he just acted differently they'd like him more.

But he got tired, and, like most delusions, he couldn't keep lying to himself. The Activity Club was just another place where he didn't quite fit in.

Which brings him to the problem of Max.

Did he actually like the behatted boy? Or was he just kidding himself again— trying to make a person whom he barely knew into something he's not? Was he going to chase after Max everyday like he used to with Isabel and Ed? Was he misreading the short-haired boy's feelings— did he even like being around Isaac?

Isaac grabbed his head in both his hands and groaned aloud. How could he do anything if he couldn't even trust his own emotions?

"Mr. O'Conner!" Ms. Hart's voice cut through Isaac's rambling thoughts, "I totally sympathize with the fact that the school system as it exists is not at all conducive to actually teaching students mathematical concepts and that this can be very frustrating, but if you are suffering from a meltdown or some kind of existential crisis during class, I totally recommend raising your hand and asking for clarification rather than giving in to the pointlessness of it all. So, did you have a question?"

"Uh, no ma'am, sorry."

Isaac turned his eyes to his notes as Ms. Hart returned to her lecture, but even still he couldn't focus. His stomach was rocked by some violent tempest, and his mind refused to settle. He spent the remainder of class trying to pay attention, to forget his anxieties for awhile, until the bell sang out its three note melody and Isaac filed out of the room with all the others, feeling considerably worse than he had entering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are mistakes in this, point them out to me please.


End file.
